


darker angels (closer to the light)

by peterspajamas



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Wings, Angel Ned Leeds, Angel Peter Parker, Angel Tony Stark, Angst, Burns, Child Neglect, Child Neglect by the State, Completely Secular (no religion), Creep Norman Osborn, Dead May Parker (Spider-Man), Demon Johnny Storm, Demon Peter Parker, Demon Wade Wilson, Enemies to Friends, Fluff, Gen, Heaven & Hell, Hell is not fun :(, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, JUST, Kidnapping, Orphan Peter Parker, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Peter Parker Calls Tony Stark "Dad", Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Sick Peter Parker, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Torture, Toxic Friendships, also no relation to supernatural, enemies to family, fashion - Freeform, got the sads, heaven and hell i forget that these fandom tropes all come from supernatural, just... chap 3 is a doozy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 08:46:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26849143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterspajamas/pseuds/peterspajamas
Summary: Peter Parker was a demon. He grew up in Hell, among degenerates and power struggles, Machiavellian schemes and stuck-up angels who lived a life of luxury high above him. Demons don't care about other demons, and Peter doesn't care about anyone.or: They live entire worlds away from each other. Peter goes out with his friends, goes home to his shitty dump of a room he shares with Wade Wilson, and Tony is a Senator, just a twinkle in the sky for Peter.OR: Harry Osborn gets Peter put on trial, put on bloody spectacle, and he leads him straight to the arms of avenging angel Tony Stark.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 62
Kudos: 90





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DukBook02](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DukBook02/gifts).



> this work is a WIP but I'm very taken with it
> 
> if there are content or trigger warnings you think I need to provide, by all means tell me! If you want to provide constructive criticism I would like you to ask before providing it, just so I won't be blindsided, unless it's grammar. if you see a grammar mistake, pity me: it means I have no beta 🥺

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> minor cw for this chapter. peter is underage, around fifteen or sixteen, and he's going out to clubs, drinking and stuff. OBVIOUSLY nothing sexually explicit happens in the fic, but it's clearly too mature for him. he gets hit on My intent was to convey that Hell isn't protective by nature, it doesn't have a lot of lines that people shouldn't be crossing. you know, Peter feels that, he has those feelings of unease and distrust from the beginning but they won't be laid out clearly until later. Johnny, MJ, Wade, and Harry are equally as accustomed to it and equally icked out, but none of the five of them... have boundaries or healthy emotional relationships so they all assume that they are the outlier for feeling icky when they have to play adults. so everyone will pretend that they are fine. 
> 
> as for the demon stuff, the gist is basically that peter works under a bureacracy a la Monsters Inc where he carries out Satan's (?) wishes. everyone is like the Human Torch in that they can BURST INTO FLAMES AT WILL. and angels are sparkly. think twilight or she-ra.

'Hey, angel.' Johnny grinned. Peter shook his head. 

'NO. No, Johnny. Not today.' His head burst into flame, more playful than anything. Peter was _not_ having it, though. He'd had the hardest job in the morning and he still felt a little dirty from it. Ash on his elbows and buried in his hair with the dirt. 

'What are you going to do, Peter?' he whined. 

Peter sighed. 'Shower, maybe,' he muttered. 'And anyway, why is it your business? You're going out tonight.' 

Johnny bounced along next to him no matter how much Peter sped up. 'Why do you even need to shower? Just get your flame on and burn it all off!' Peter didn't like doing that, which was somehow a foreign concept for Johnny. If Peter never flamed, Johnny did all of the time. 

'I'm all nasty. I just want to shower, okay?' he snapped crossly. He felt all upset and he crossed his arms, long red fingernails digging in. 

Johnny frowned, slowing. Peter was too polite, so he slowed to a stop, too. 'What's got you all angry today?'

'Just a run-in with a not nice vampire. Good night, Johnny. Before you ask, I really don't want to take shots with you tonight or see Wade, like, at all. If you or MJ or Harry want to see me, just visit me, okay?'

Johnny sighed, spinning on his heel. 'Well, goodbye, then.' His eyes got all big and sad. 'Are you sure that you don't want to go out?' 

'Yeah.' And then Peter was left alone to finish walking down the glossy black halls of the DR- the Demon's Republic, of course- to where the bureaucracy branched out into dorm rooms. Peter stayed in a room with Wade Wilson, who seemed more suited to chaos than coals. Peter wasn't suited to either. Not really. May, his aunt, died last year, so he was staying with Services until he earned enough and turned old enough that he could find his own house. He toed off his boots. Demons always had the most luxurious clothes but nasty, filthy accomodations. Wade was a mess, so the floor was stained with blood, and smoke, and vomit. The tang of whiskey floated to his nose as he stripped off his socks, checking the windows. They were latched tight and the curtains were closed. The door had five locks on it. _You're fine_ , he told himself. Demons didn't play nice. He had to be careful. The cape and the ragged shirt and leather pants landed in a heap on the floor, light from the eerie purple and red lanterns Wade had got them reflecting off of the buckles. His stomach turned over- he hadn't eaten today- and he stepped, naked, into the shower. 

Water pounded into his back, each droplet a needle. Everything in Hell was like that. The water stripped your skin with heat and pressure. The jobs played with your mind, played with other peoples' minds... He scrubbed viciously, just like the water and the jobs and the demons there, fingers scratching his scalp like it would rip clean off. Peter's face was red and inflamed. He hadn't been crying, if anyone asked. The puffiness in his eyes was from pepper spray and the chunks of tears in his throat were nonexistent if you didn't listen closely. And Peter- he made sure no one did. 

Peter's jobs were many and varied. On days that were supposed to be exciting, Lord Osborn sent him to Earth to take over someone's head for the day. On more mundane days, he played the devil on a man's shoulder. Peter liked days where he worked night janitor in the cafeteria best. There were interesting views of the stars from Hell. And it was so peaceful, swaying to tinny speaker music while he swept the floor clean. Peter would sabotage himself so he could do it every day if it didn't mean facing that disappointed look on Lord Osborn's face. He hated that look. It made him feel awful. His eyes slid closed and he leaned back, against the tiled wall of the shower. 

Today, he had impersonated someone, just mischief. He'd possessed them and taken off all his clothes on the subway and he knew it wasn't _his body_ , but. But. 

* * *

Angels were very pretentious. Flash, the angel, was not only pretentious, but downright mean. Peter had a low week, where his will had dwindled and he couldn't really sleep, but he couldn't find it in himself to stay awake, either, which was a recipe for certain disaster. 'You look like shit. If I ran into you in Heaven I'd get someone to send you to the spa.' There was a spa in Heaven? _I am going to turn in my homework a day late_. That was a bad thought, one that Peter was meant to encourage. 

Peter smiled. After all, he was supposed to. 'Good idea,' he supplied. 'It isn't like you need to do anything with a teacher this stressed. She'd be glad that you aren't doing anything.' 

Flash glared at Peter, setting himself to one-upping him. 'No,' he soothed. Peter felt a curious twist of longing in his gut. 'No, if you're good and you turn it all in on time, it'll be better in the long run. You're stressed enough already! That poor teacher wants to grade everything at once, don't they? Impress her. Impress her,' he stressed, looking smugly at Peter.

Peter didn't meet angels very often. He had two, Flash, and Liz Allan- who was distant. She'd been burned in a literal sense before so there was no hounding after her, Peter just left her be- but he was very sure that there were no good ones out there. Yeah, they were _good_ , but he couldn't stand it. They wore- white corsets and pastel things that looked like chitons or party dresses. Flash wore a lot of tulle. Peter hated it. It was awful! Disgusting. _Guess it does matter_. Peter scowled. 'You think you're good at this?' he taunted. 

Flash huffed. 'Better than you.' 

Peter rolled his eyes, sitting back. 'You should kick that boy!' he called idly. He and Flash never did shouldering on the same person twice. 'And if I recall, you definitely failed at getting that girl to sue instead of keying his car,' he said boredly, inspecting his fingernails. 

They were long and red. He had things like that, of course, but he looked mostly normal. Demons got these awful, creepy surgeries sometimes, if they could afford it (Peter couldn't) and they walked around with insect parts sticking out of their body, scorpion tails out of their backsides, red eyes that dripped blood every time they blinked. He _hated_ it. Completely and utterly poor taste. Peter had fledgling wings and no-one thought horns would grow in- Wade, Harry, Johnny, and MJ all had them, just went to show who was actually superior- so he looked almost human. Someone had once called him angel eyes, voice dripping in disdain. Peter's clawed hands fisted just thinking about it. He'd shown them. When he glanced over at Flash again, he was stony faced. Peter bent forward to adjust his spiked boots, flicking a bit of dirt onto Flash's dark, bronzed nose.

'What was that for?' he yelped, wiping it off with the back of his hand. Instead of bursting into flames on a moment's notice, angels were all... sparkles and light. Peter felt a bit of that heat crawl up his legs and because it would freak Flash out, he started letting bits of himself flame. First it was his shoulders, and then his legs. Soon, Flash noticed and all hell broke loose. He jumped back with a screech, light blaring from his fingertips that instantly cooled the fire. Peter only heated faster, standing to his full height and flaming blue. His eyes, like coals, stared into Flash's until the other boy flinched away. 

While they had been fighting, the boy had eaten dinner. Peter stalked forward, and Flash's eyes narrowed as he concentrated at leveling a sparkly blast towards Peter's throat. He ducked it, appearing with an arm around Flash's waist. 'Oh. Would you look at that, sparkles have no defense against me,' he said dryly, bursting into full flame. Before Flash could really go nuts, though, everything faded away. Peter blinked, looking around. 

He was in the reporting room. No one did much here, just walked on through. The flames died down, Peter's skin returning to normal. 

Before he could even blink, MJ grabbed him by the collar. He gasped for air before she let go, walking down the hallway with Peter in tow. Everyone stalked past, never anything with grace. Power was more important. 'MJ? Where are we going?'

She smiled, shark like, before disappearing down a set of stairs. He rushed after her. 'Where are we going?' 

Finally, ten blocks down the street, she grinned and pulled him inside of a club. It was deep green, like the very depths of the ocean, and so crowded and sweaty that he immediately folded into the crowd. Above the hair and horns, he could see her begin to dance without another word to him. Had she even spoken to him in the past week? He squinted, flinching when he felt someone rub against him from behind. Without looking, he viciously threw an elbow out, scowling. 'Drink,' he said across to the bartender; they couldn't really hear him. 

'What?' she grunted loudly. A couple jangled notes scattered across the room, some awful lady thinking it was appropriate to start singing in a voice that was too husky and burnt out to be considered beautiful. Peter was the only one of his friends that had a singing voice and it was because he didn't like making himself into flame. It always felt itchy. 

'Drink,' he repeated, louder. She offered him a shot and he took it without breathing, tumbling back into the crowd. There was nothing that they loved more than to dance, or drink. It was the ultimate sin that took no effort, so the dorms had twelve alcoholics already and Johnny knew all the tricks to get into the VIP areas. Peter's skin crawled with every new person he bumped into, their velvet capes and roughened skin brushing against him every other second. He met eyes with a blue haired beauty and smiled slowly. She vanished after sending a flirty look his way, though. Better prospects.

Eventually, he just let go, and tried to ignore the smell, the taste- in the air, he could taste it- of sweat and acrid cologne, cheap polyester and blood. He just et go. Peter's hair swung, flopping all over his face, damp with sweat. Music thundered about his body and a woman flamed up next to him. A man tossed his head back in throes of pleasure while another demon, more androgynous, leaned forward. Peter jolted forward when a dancing couple shoved into his space, scowling at him. Shorter than the rest of the crowd by a few inches, he stumbled away from the worst parts of the dance floor until he was at the bar again. 

His throat was dry. Parched. Like paper that had been sun-bleached, _God_ , did he hate the sun and left above a howling fire to become ashy. A pair of grabby hands attached to a lanky body stumbled into him from behind. Panting, Peter turned to where their fingers trailed up his arm and shivered. 'Drink,' he rasped. 'Please.'

'I'll take care of that, smoky. Has anyone ever told you that you have a hella sexy voice?' Their tone dropped an octave and Peter shook his head. 

'I'm tired,' he spat. 'Get out. Find someone else.' The demon pouted, lips curling over their teeth. Peter put his hand around the icy glass, holding it tightly and focusing on the wet condensation dripping onto his hand. This club didn't use dry ice, but most did. Hell was a region of extremes. Through the sweaty air, Peter could smell a hint of vomit. Bass pounded into his shuddering heart. Demons didn't have hearts, he reminded himself. He'd only learned about those when he'd possessed a biology student. 

The demon's hand curled over his wrist. Peter sneered. 'Come _on_ ,' they wheedled. Was this where Johnny had gotten it from? Pushy demons at the club?

He shot them a cool look and yanked his hand away, shaking it off like it had been licked by a dog. A sense of disquiet was growing in his throat. This time, he could use pain as an excuse. His legs were awfully sore from trying to keep balance in a crowded room. _Why_ had MJ brought him here? Peter cleared his throat, leaning into their space. 'Fuck off,' he said with a loose grin. Once the dick had wandered off, he found a stool and tried to make himself small on it. Sheltered beneath his black cape of sheer fabric, he ran a hand through his damp curls. He took a shot, and another, loving the burn even though it made him jolt forward, unsteady and ill at ease. He bit his lip. Today hadn't been so bad, not really. He met eyes with the bartender, pupils dilating until they glanced away with a smirk on their face. The fabric of his shirt rustled, clinging to his chest and making him shift around on the red leather of the barstool. The dance floor was whirling sea green lights and cloudy blue smoke, but the bar was more of a pirate ship.   
  
  


He watched the people around him. Two women kissing. The porn he always encouraged boys to watch had the same look, with sex dumped in every crevice, oozing from their pores. He looked away and over at a man swaying and high. 

He flinched when he heard the crack of a nose being punched. Next to him, the man began to cackle. MJ was standing, satisfied, with one hip cocked. Her knuckles were bloody. 'Oh my God!' he said loudly, staggering over to her. 

MJ scowled, shoving his hands off. He put them behind his back, staring at her. 'I'm fucking going!' she screamed at the guards beginning to approach, cutting a path through the thick crowd. Whoever she'd punched was gone. 

'Oh my God,' he repeated, inhaling the familiar smell of sulfur and smoke outside of the club. She glared at him, sneering, and flames gathered in her hand, systematically burning off the blood. 'What happened?' he slurred.

'Nothing.' Her voice was clipped and he fell behind when they began walking back. His eyes dragged down, sleepy. He woke up at seven this morning and now it was midnight and he was drunk, so it was the perfect time to sleep. He leaned on MJ's shoulder, half dead. 

'-ter. Peter.' He slowly woke up, registering the new voice. 

'Wha...'

Wade jumped onto the bed, clapping his hands together. 'Goodie! You're awake! You came home _so_ drunk last night, I wanna hear all about your adventures!' he squealed. 

'Go away,' Peter said in a low, rough voice. 'Just get out.' 

Wade pouted, sitting on his bed with a mournful look on his face. Peter showed him both middle fingers. It barely phased him. 'Oh. Petey pie, Petey boy, this isn't _fair_! It's just not nice for you to be so mean to me like this... yes, I know, he's too good for us. If only-shut up! Did I ask for your opinion? I can count on one hand the number of times I've asked for your opinion. Why are you always so mean to me?' He flung himself on the bed, keeping vigorous conversation with himself. 

  
The cot provided by Services was bare minimum, of course. Used mattress, no sheets, no blanket, and no pillows. A metal bed frame that creaked and held his body up in all ways. The worst part about Hell, if Peter had to provide an answer, was that everyone wanted everyone else to be miserable. 'Peter.' From the door, Harry drawled out his name like it was something sweet. 

Peter could count on one hand the number of people who could make him feel like he was going to vomit with just one hand. Harry was- he was one of them. 'Yeah?' He wiped his nervous palms on his leather pants that he shouldn't have worn to bed.

Harry gave him a once-over, raising a disdainful eyebrow. Peter's eyes flicked to the floor. 'My father wants to see you,' he said slowly. Peter knew that Harry was his friend but every time they were in the same room he began to feel sick. 'I have to get to business, of course,' he said charmingly. 'The world doesn't wait when you have my power.' 

Peter stood up and Harry let him pass. Wade was batshit but he always shut up around Harry, thank God. 'Good luck,' Peter said carefully, sweeping past him into the hallway. 

The walk to Lord Osborn's quarters was endless. The same black tile on all of the walls, the same, uniform plants and decorations. Only the paintings revealed where to go, and he only knew because he'd gone this way a thousand times. Lord Osborn seemed to take a special interest in him.

'Peter Parker, just the boy I've been looking for.' Lord Osborn's tone was one part mocking and one part eager and the rest was condescending. In the hierarchy, he ruled near the top. Peter sat ramrod straight, stormy look on his face, in one of the navy chairs. His throat let in only a sliver of air. And that disappeared entirely when Osborn's shadow drew closer, looming over Peter's seat. He grinned suddenly, drawing a slim finger up Peter's neck and cupping his chin. Goosebumps followed in his wake.

'I heard that,' Peter replied, jerking his head away. 'What's my assignment today?' He secretly hoped for janitorial duties, God help him. 

Osborn's smile was just like MJ's, except MJ cared at least a little and there was nothing that Lord Norman Osborn truly cared about- except for power. Osborn's voice evened out to its usual clipped tone. 'Possession,' he said, voice crisp the way a mushroom was, fungus covered in dew and crawling up stumps, down Peter's throat and up his legs, chaining him there. 'It's a boy. Sixteen, baseball player. I think it would be interesting for you to impersonate him and ruin his chances with the team.' Peter nodded mutely. Why had Osborn called him in? 

'Anything else?' he asked, blinking slowly. Lord Osborn was always discouraged from his torture Peter Parker agenda when he showed less emotion, closed himself off. 

'Oh, let's not start business just yet, boy. Did you do well on your last assignment?' Peter nodded, eyes flicking to the floor. Lord Osborn frowned again. 'If you want to go, you can,' he said darkly, voice like a darkening thunderstorm, rumbling and harsh. A snarl on his face went cold when Peter looked up. His heart juddered in his chest. Peter didn't move. He'd learned long ago that Lord Osborn never meant it when he said that Peter could go. He was staying until he was really dismissed. 'Your horns haven't even shown a hint of emerging,' he said, cocking his head. 

'Yes, sir,' Peter replied quietly. 

'And look at your wings,' he mocked, poking at a black feather. Peter's tiny wings flinched back and he looked up, murderous. When Osborn tried to grab for him again, he moved out of the way. 'It's fine, boy. Late bloomers are common.'

Peter sighed, privately rolling his eyes. Harry and his dad were meant to be the representatives of Hell, but their reservedness and cold dispositions put them at odds with everyone else. Unflappable and sinful and carefree, made of smoke, mirrors, and fire was not what he saw when he looked at Norman Osborn's carefully schooled face. 'When do you want me to go, _sir_?' he asked impatiently.

'Fine,' he thundered, voice deep and cruel. Peter cringed back for a split second before standing abruptly. Lord Osborn tapped the crystal ball on his desk until it began to swirl with grey fog. Before Peter landed in the boy's body, he caught a glimpse of Osborn pacing, brows set low over his eyebrows. 

'Danny! You have football practice this morning!' a woman's awful screech echoed through the house. Every time he possessed someone, every sound and sight pierced him for the first few moments as he got reaccustomed to a body. This one was sore. Thighs aching, biceps that very nearly got in the way of his movements, bruised shoulder. He blinked, taking in the dizzying colors and lights of Danny's room. There were football pennants above a messy desk and a perpetual motion machine sitting on shelves with sports trophies. He had clothes on, which was a plus, and no-one was in the bed with him, another relief. 'Danny!' She appeared in the door, pajamas on, with a scowling face. He groaned. 

An idea occurred to him. The typical tricks were always good, speaking languages and seeing through people, acting the part. 'Yes, mother,' he said neutrally. He sounded nasal, perfect. 'I must rise for the day's work.' 

She looked at him funny and walked off. By the time he was off of the bus and at school, he'd gotten the skepticism from three girls, the bus driver, and his older brother. 'Anthony!' he said loudly. The dark-haired boy froze, turning slowly. Danny always bullied him. 'My friend!' he said, running forward. 'I must consult with you on the validity of the substantive evidence that Pluto is, in fact, a planet.' 

Someone chuckled uneasily but he focused his beady little eyes on the guy in front of him. Anthony shook his head, backing away. Danny's body was achingly aware of the eyes on it. 'Dude, not even funny to tease the nerds if you're going to act like that.' 

'Hands off, ignoramus!' he said, brandishing a judgmental, wagging finger. 'I want no part of your simpleton's games!'

Danny flounced from class to class, raising his hand again and again in a parody of the eighties' nerds, if you trusted movies. 

'Man, come on,' the tallest guy in class hissed, jogging to catch up to him. 'We have football practice, at least drop it there,' he said, lip curling. 

Danny was a mouth breather today so he heaved a put upon sigh. Danny scoffed. 'I do not intend to weaken my precious brain with your recreational violence!' he said shrilly. 'I will be attending the physics exhibition at the museum tonight to enrich myself. I doubt that you will do the same,' Danny said, heavy handed. His friend backed away, looking terrified. 

_Just wait_ , Peter thought evilly. Things always got worse after the first day. His plan for this one was to start screaming chants in Latin outside of a Catholic church in a few days. He hated possessing these poor teenagers. He informed his mother that he was attending the biology experiment at the exhibition before riding there on a bus. Every time someone came close, he flashed crazy eyes until they walked away. 'Here at Starlings and Osborn-' He barely suppressed his shiver at the name. It wasn't real, of course, but it was real enough- 'We are at the forefront of gene editing and selective evolution. Take, for example, these regenerating cells,' the head scientist said, his voice as dry and boring as the desert. He droned on- about evolution, again, and modified Darwinism and real-life experiments with instant gene editing, and then he turned on the blasting furnace and retrieved a bottle of chemicals that were supposed to be very special. 

Danny didn't need to pay attention to this and there was nothing to sabotage here so Peter just stood there. The room was contained, air filtered and clean in the way that labs always had. The floor was a dingy linoleum and he shifted to the side, suppressing his boredom. He leaned back, sighing heavily. 

A tiny bite of pain drew his attention to his hand and he absently shook it before... _before_. 

Peter's mouth suddenly opened and his legs gave out, as past Danny, past this body that was supposed to bear pain for him, his own blood, his lava-like blood began to grow even hotter. Like when people poured dry ice on his forehead, it grew clammy and ice-cold. He was in Danny's body, yes, but his wings were aching and his guts were turning over on themselves like knotted vines clamoring for sun. 'Son! Son, are you okay?' 

Peter- Danny's- mouth opened but no words came out, just a silent scream. In all his years of possession and sin, Peter had never once heard a silent scream. But he- he opened his mouth and drops of blood came out in lieu of breath, heart pounding frenetically. _His pulse... dropping,_ someone said, and to his right, _critically low_

and everywhere else there were snatches of panic and the fury of emergencies and Peter was dying _heart attack? Stroke? He's having a seizure?_ Peter couldn't figure it out. The same spinning sensation he felt when he fully possessed someone, made them his puppet, was everywhere now, pounding at his head. Pounding at his sore body. He tried to scream again. Nothing came out.

And slowly, beneath the human veins he was borrowing, in his true form, something began to creep through the lava-like blood and pockets of flame every demon carried, and Peter began to change. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still on the lookout for an irondad or spiderman discord? what's life if you aren't gushing over Peter Parker with online buddies! leave a comment if you know of one pls


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter realizes what has happened to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ignore my terrible, heavy handed foreshadowing  
> vomit warning: last line of the first scene from: "That time, Peter really did..."  
> He and Harry get into a fight, and Harry is... sadistic? nasty? they scream at each other and actually, physically fight. prepare yourself for the fight, ok?
> 
> if you want to request a scenario, I'd love to hear your thought, as always? (and prompts are open on my [tumblr](https://jean-and-diet-coke.tumblr.com/))

'It worked. It actually worked.' 

The voice was cruel, and wondrous, and chilling. Peter, for a fraction of a second, struggled above the calm waves of sleep to hear it. And then he was back under.

* * *

'Petey boy! Wake up!' Wade shouted, throwing a lamp at his head. 

Peter groaned, burrowing into the board-like, bare mattress. Everything felt off today. His head ached with fever and he could barely lift his head. Wade pounced on him, bouncing on the bed. His scarred face popped into Peter's eyeline, eyes huge and manic. 'Go 'way.' Wade was like a giant balloon, magnified to triple his size. Peter's vision spun. 

'Aww, Peter! Come on!' Peter shivered, scrabbling to push his roommate away. Wade snarled, cursing, and glared him down. 'Dontcha want to hear about my _day_?' He pouted.

'Not really,' Peter muttered, finding energy in himself to roll over. His wings ached. They felt... different. Bigger. 

Wade wandered off, loudly putting on his boots while shouting, at the top of his lungs, loud enough for anyone upstairs or downstairs, about the legitimacy of 69ing. Peter pushed himself o=up onto his elbows, miraculously, and took in a giant breath. He slowly breathed in, then out. The door slammed abruptly and Wade's footsteps stomped down the hall. 

'Bye,' he said roughly. He staggered, landing hard on the floor, on his knees, retching. Part of it was the unrelenting smell of old vomit and blood on the ground, and part of it was the pain focused on his wings. He hadn't looked at them in forever, it was too embarrassing to have such stunted growth, but as the throbbing intensified, he knew something was, something was very truly wrong. Had something... _happened_ while he was possessing that boy? Before he could think any further, he was gagging, again, holding his breath so the mold and old piss didn't provoke a more... unpleasant reaction. He hauled himself up with one hand squeezing the wall, trudging to the bathroom. 

He hadn't even gotten dressed after he'd gotten back from Lord Osborn's piercing, unnatural glare and his disappointment over Peter's failure. 

So he ignored his bloodshot, red-rimmed, sick and angry eyes in the mirror and stripped down, unlacing his corset and ripping the stained, fake velvet on his legs off, letting the pieces fall to the floor. It tore easily. He smirked, knowing that when he repurposed it, it would be even more scrappy. Purple was in style, not tattered, but he'd seen the bartender yesterday wearing a passably ripped mesh skirt so it worked out, in the end. His head pounded again, eyes fluttering shut as he tried to gather himself. With long, bare fingernails, he pinched his sides in punishment. It was dumb to have such visible weakness, but like everyone in Hell, Peter was sick almost all of the time, or at least hungover. He scoffed at himself, rolling out his dragging, sore shoulders. 

The smashed up tiles on the floor were grey, or at least grey with dirt. So it was all the more obvious when something so bright drifted to the floor. He stared at the rusty, pinkish feather in pure confusion for a moment. He only ever saw feathers on angel wings or on Earth, with those birds. Demons' wings were made of scales, or leather, or just gauzy fabric strung up between bones, always a viscerally dark color. Behind him, his wings fluttered, stretching out for a split second and folding in. They'd never done that before. 

_They'd never done that before_. 

Peter whirled around to face his mirror again. Bloodshot eyes, chest marred with cuts from the corset digging in, greasy brown hair- and pure white wings, larger than he'd seen on anyone but Harry, rising up from his shoulder blades. 'What?' he said faintly. The words echoed off of the bathroom wall. They were a rusty red from blood seeping out of the raw, inflamed shoulders. They were white, and pure, like some _angel_.

That time, he really did retch and vomit into the sink.

* * *

The white wings had to be a secret. More than the nasty rashes he had after Ben died. More than when he was fifteen and he lost his virginity to Johnny and more than when Wade had cut off his eyebrows in the night, he _needed_ , desperately, for them to be kept a secret. So he hung dripping gray crystals off of them, painted them with sludge and covered that with fabric. Every time Johnny flamed up, because he couldn't help himself, couldn't control himself, Peter felt the heat. He'd never felt heat like that before.   
  
  


He felt sick. 

When MJ walked into his and Wade's room, he sneered at her. 'Look what the cat dragged in,' he said, squinting at her. 'How was the demonic possession? Did some Catholic church take care of it?' he simpered, trying to fit a needle through uncooperative, cheap satin and stabbing himself instead. She set her jaw and began to pick at her nails in boredom; she never answered these questions.

'You look like hell,' she said, smirking at the pun. He kicked his legs up against the wall, shifting so that his painted wings were fully disguised. Boot marks were already everywhere on the wall, holes from stilettos and paint making it art. 'Then again, you always do.' She walked over to him, lifting his thumb and sucking the blood off of the needle's wound. He tensed; he felt how his blood had changed, from murky and vivid lava to something sweeter, but MJ didn't say a thing, just tugged lightly on his hair. He stared her down but it felt so nice, just-

Her fingers were warm, and he had been sweating since he'd come back from his trip yesterday, sweat plastering his thick layers to his body, but it felt nice like this. She wasn't humid like so much else was. She dug her fingers into his hair and began to scratch. 

It was the most affectionate anyone had been with him in a long time. 

'I heard you're back on janitorial duty,' Harry said, stalking into the room and sending a knowing, smug smile Peter's way. He closed his eyes, nodding slightly and tipping his head into MJ's hands. 'I've been off of _that_ since last year.'

Wade's frenetic body added another layer to the claustrophobic room, bouncing the way old cartoons- that damn tiger- did, onto his bed, climbing and jumping up and down on it. 'Not all of us have daddy's power, Harry!' he squealed.   
  
  
MJ smiled in satisfaction, removing her hands from Peter's hair and gliding to the other end of the room. Peter made himself smaller; without her standing in front of him, they could see his body better and if they _saw_ \- 'Yeah, Harry,' Peter added on, ruffling his fingers through his hair. 'Not all of us can take advantage of our father.' 

Harry's face went stormy. He was the kind of person to grind his teeth to dust, but he'd gotten them sharpened, lengthened, so he looked more menacing. His hands closed into fists, but instead of restraint, he slapped Peter across the face, standing defiantly with his arms crossed and legs spaced apart. His dark eyes were black. Wade gasped, mumbling to himself and babbling to MJ. Peter stood up. 

'And why did you do that?' he asked softly. 

Harry's face twisted and he cracked his knuckles. 'I don't think I need a reason to hit you, Parker,' he spat back, looking critically down Peter's slight frame until he felt so demeaned that he shrank. 

Peter tensed, springing forward to claw at Peter. 'You think I'm not crazy, you asshole?' he screeched, hauling back and punching Harry in the face, knocking one of his precious white teeth and slamming his head. 'I'll fucking kill you if you touch me again!' he screamed. 

Harry wrestled with him, managing to flip him and wrap a hand around his neck, pressing down. He had pale hands, and between the pounding of Peter's heart and the crazed look in Harry's eyes, he was aware of the scaldingly hot blood pumping through Harry's veins. 'Not so on top now, are you?' he panted, smiling.

'You win.' Peter was quiet and cold and defeated and he turned to the wall when Harry let go. 

'Your wings grew in.' His voice was faintly surprised with none of the vitriolic evil from before. Peter shivered, turning again with a guardedness and trying to coax his angel- _god, was that a disgusting word_ \- to cooperate and fold back. Instead they sprung up a bit because he couldn't help but feel terrified. 

Harry reached out to touch him, hand coming away with a bit of fabric. 'Harry, get over-' MJ began. 

Harry whipped the fabric off of his wings and Peter pushed him away, but not until feathers slid to the ground, sticky with glue. Wade and MJ and Harry stared for a moment, shocked into silence, before Harry backed up, mouth open with glee. 

Peter stared ahead, wings lifting high. 

And Harry left the room with one feather clutched in his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> up next: demons play trial by fire and Peter burns.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Demons play trial by fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> re: the trigger warning. essentially they are deciding if Peter is still a demon. like witch trials, they carry Peter into a fire and then light it on fire. it is graphic-ish. descriptions of pain and mild, MILD gore. to be clear, it is mostly descriptions of pain. I'm talking vaguest gore I could manage. this is the most graphically violent scene in the fic at all, is the good news, and nothing too bad will be described since next chapter is Tony POV. the burns themselves are not that bad. painful in the moment but it gets better super quick. 
> 
> other warnings: Peter gets into a fight with MJ. mostly screaming and saying hurtful things but still a fight. she pulls of some of his feathers :/ Harrry comes into his cell like a little creep and scratches him and tells him he sucks  
> the cell is so squicky too.... like no water. no food. chained to the floor. left to piss urself... 🤮

MJ and Wade were still staring at him. 'I don't know you at all, do I?' she asked viciously. 

Peter's eyes widened and then narrowed. He stomped into her space and her wings- bat-like and decrepit, destroyed by the week she had spent in a ravine after Harry pushed her down- flared up. They were nose to nose. 'Petey, where did you get these?' Wade squealed. 

Peter's breath skipped. Wade's rough fingers touched them, tugging to get all of the grime off. He leaned closer, scarred-up face brushing against one soft feather. Peter ignored him, looking at MJ again. MJ was everyone's friend and no one's. Harry knew everyone but he'd stab you in the back quicker than you could say his name, and Wade was friends with everyone, in a soft way. Too crazy to understand but also too crazy to hurt anyone in a real way. MJ never hurt you first. With Harry, she got her revenge quickly, and she'd never needed revenge with Peter. Until now. 'I never lied to you,' he said, baring his teeth. 

The tips of her wings burst into blue, angry flames and her eyes glowed with that same, unearthly color. 'Did you?' she said softly. Then, screaming, 'So how long have these been on your fucking back, Peter? I should cut them off,' she hissed, tearing two feathers off and ripping each one down the center. He shoved her back, shoulders set wide to make himself seem bigger. 

MJ's always been like this. Once, someone called her sensitive. She was sensitive to every minute change, to hurt and betrayal, but not in the way flowery, wishy washy angels were. She was too thick skinned for that. 'Johnny!' Wade sang.

Peter turned and MJ took the opportunity to grip his chin, fingers _burning_ , and hiss, 'I'll not be sorry if they test you.' 

Knots of dread grew in his stomach, and he suddenly felt very shaky. The demons would test him. He had no doubt about that. No doubt about Harry's ruthlessness. 'Harry thinks it's a game,' he whispered quietly. MJ's face softened as much as it ever did- had she forgiven him already? Her grudges never burnt out this fast- and she crossed her arms, leaning against a wall. Her eyes were dark brown, nearly black, still staring him down, and the dark makeup staining her face, chalky and badly done. He stared past her. 

'What is this?' Johnny asked softly. Peter's wings folded in and he menaced him with a dark glare.   
  
  


'So pretty,' Wade said again. 'No, no, no, it's just special! Petey is just like us!' he said loudly, pouncing on the gray cloth laying on the floor Peter had thought would disguise him. 

'Peter, what is it?' Johnny asked again, eyes growing brighter. Luminescent. The brighter he got, the more MJ faded. And Peter was the center of attention.

They all heard the footsteps stomping down the hallway. 'Peter,' Johnny repeated. 

Peter glared darkly at him. He met Johnny in a bar, after May had left him there, knowing the woman tending bar would keep an eye out for him. May always found the most decent people. Johnny was there because his sister, Sue, was the bartender that was decent. He still lived with Sue and her reckless husband. 'Johnny, I swear to God-'

His eyebrows furrowed. 'But I've seen your wings. I've seen them.'

From across the room, cutting over Wade's excited congratulation, _why was he acting so happy,_ MJ drawled out an answer. 'He changed. And now he'll get what he-' She cut off looking guilty. 

And the door burst open.

* * *

Each footstep was pointed. Each one echoed. Harry certainly made an entrance, whether it was with flames licking up through his hair or something else. He was the bass line, darkly underscoring everything going on in Hell at any time. He was dressed head to toe in fire colors, a brilliant red brocade stitched to his throat. Harry had always been something else. Something dangerous. Something otherworldly, larger than life even when he wasn't stepping on Peter's throat, cutting off his air. He was tall with power and purpose that he thought was his birthright.  
  
  
Peter, on the other hand, was strapped onto the floor, kneeling. His wrists were pulled to each side, shackles squeezing down on his thin wrists. His ankles were chained together. 'How the might have fallen,' Harry breathed. 

A lit hand stroked through his hair, running heat down his scalp until he was trying his best to wriggle away. That was when Harry's face changed and he snatched a handful of Peter's old shirt, ripping it down the middle. His pants followed. 'Yeah. Let's get you dressed for your big show, why don't we?' he said, tying a threadbare black cloth around Peter's shoulders. 

'You think this is funny?' Peter rasped. It was a day without water. He had peed himself and it smelled. 'Or are you just scared that I'm special now? That I'm going to overshadow you?' Harry's hand clenched tight on his shoulders and he scratched his back with both hands, putting his whole self into it. 'Are you trying to draw blood? Get off me, you crazy dick!' he screamed, shaking Harry off. 

'You're going to get it, Peter. Finally, I'm going to hear you cry,' he said, face white. Unstable and eager and insane.

'Good luck with that,' Peter spat, breathing in the smell of urine on the floor. Harry took his boot and ground it into Peter's head. His head pounded. He needed a drink. 

Harry left. Still no word on when Peter would be taken. 

* * *

Hell was sweaty. It was hot. It was dry or humid, or achingly, jarringly hot, or in between. Peter never knew it more than when he sat, tied like a pig and facing a rapt audience. Sweat prickled at his neck, soaking the black fabric barely covering him. They wanted to see the wings. A guard picked one of his feathers off in morbid fascination. Peter stared straight ahead. In the front row, there was Harry standing with his father, each of them with their own exacting, manipulative look on their face. Behind them, there was- MJ standing with Johnny. Wade's mouth was shut. It was never like that. 

He glared at them, flinching when one of the guards yanked his wings apart to inspect the gap there. It was like this: His hands and knees were chained to the ground and his wings were trying their best to be small. He met eyes with Johnny. He couldn't bear to keep looking, to know shame, to see the burning hate in his eyes. Was it for Peter? Or the guards behind him, pressing their smoking fingers to his curly hair and singing it black? Regardless, _regardless_ , Johnny had an intense look on his face that spoke volumes to how much this affected him. MJ was serious as ever and Wade had a small hand fisted in his shirt. Wade was smaller than people expected after they'd heard his voice. He looked the part today.   
  
  


'Peter Parker!' the woman acting as entertainer announced, slimy voice sliding between his ribcage to toy with his heart, make it beat double time. 'Here he is, ladies and gentlemen.' 

Peter stared into the crowd, baring his teeth at anyone who looked. Oh, what a _spectacle_ _,_ he was. 'Trial one.' 

There were three trials.   
  
  


The first was- Peter screamed, knees buckling as he thrashed, hand prints marked in the shape of palms burning through his skin. At first, it was just a shock, but then the unexpected, blinding bright pain came through. Skin bubbled. The two guards' hands squeezed more, and he made a shrill noise, eyes snapping shut. Outside, it was dusky orange light coated with smog and a square with two whorehouses on each corner, brown and blackened exteriors that used to be brick. 

His vision had turned black. Slowly, pain receded to just sick throbbing on his back. He couldn't see anything. A tiny moan left him and a teardrop landed on the stage. His eyes flew open- that was why it was black, he had closed his eyes- to look at the bloodstained stage. When one guard poked at the wound, he began to sob and he did not stop. Pressure built in his throat and his chest until he was bursting open, raw and terrible, on the stage. In front of everyone. Tears. 'Trial two...' Their voices filtered in and out as Peter lost it on the stage. 

He didn't cry. Maybe, when he was a demon- because he _wasn't one now_ \- he had no tear ducts, but this was something else. His teeth ached from clenching down so hard and every drop of water was trickling down his nose, down to the corners of his mouth, wet sobs emerging from his mouth unheeded and unwanted. 'Starting now.' Flames licked up his arms for a few full seconds as he thrashed and the shackles heated up. He turned his head upwards, gasping for air and exposing his neck to the crowd. He'd already failed. There was no need to drag it out, to drag him further down. Every brush of air against his skin was met with a stronger lick of pain, met with jeers from the crowd. 

Heat licked up his throat, tears coming out. Blurrily, he thought about how thoroughly ruined his reputation would be. When he looked out, brown eyes glazed with pain, Wade looked him square in the eyes. Peter's head dropped. His breath came out in short, irregular bursts, dragging through his throat until every time he moved he felt the way that air scraped through him. He was hyperventilating. And oxygen was combustible. 

_last one last one last one_

'Three.' Someone threw a rock at the stage. It rolled to a stop in front of him. Gritty black dust coated it, and the more he breathed, the more some blew off. It was perfectly ordinary. Perfectly hellish. 

Three hot coals landed on his back and it bowed. Death without really dying. The shrill scream rang out across the clearing, and his wings twisted as he jerked. It was unhuman, the noise he was kicking up, and red. Red was the color of the day. Heat was the meaning. Sweat poured down his neck as he sobbed into the stage, brought to heel and brought to lows. He hated this ritual. Even watching it was terrifying. Flattened to the ground, all he could do was cry. He'd be free soon. Gone. A soul that Satan watched over, instead of this, this writhing mess of pain. 

The rest was fluid and blurry, as they took him roughly and threw him to the ground outside of the gates of hell. He could do nothing but burn up, sweat on his back and dripping down his forehead.   
  
  
And they left him to die. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> question down here? Do we want Spideytorch, Interwebs, Peter/Gwen, Spideypool, Spideychelle, Parkner or something else? No Starker.  
> related note: how many proteges is too many? if you want a shorter fic then Peter will meet everyone through Tony. if you want longer I can have him foster his own relationships. if you don't care I will do whatever the fuck i want!!  
> comments are very much appreciated!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> enter tony stark. he finds a battered angel at the Gates of Hell. 
> 
> also I keep forgetting to date the chapters to when I post them instead of when I write them, and I am just dumb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to everyone who commented their ships, i think i have settled on spideytorch but honestly who knows! its gonna be at least three chapters before we get into that. I want to try and be really thoughtful about the relationship! make it a good dynamic. tw for burns and a brief brief medical situation. 
> 
> This chapter isn't great, I don't think. In fact I think it is sort of bad. But I don't want to obsess over it so here it is.
> 
> I am so excited for the tropey stuff I have planned. let's just say that Tony's other two children will NOT like the batshit new arrival very much...

Waking from nightmares was always a trip. It was Tony's- his juggernaut. It ruined his day within the first few breaths. These breaths, the first ones, were always the hardest. Gasping for air with images flickering in his mind. Cold sweat, cold bed. He stretched out, bones creaking, and left the bed. This past night had been something intangibly terrifying. With gritted teeth, he set to making coffee. _Demons of the mind_ , he told himself. _Don't let them get to you_. It was almost ironic that they literally were demons.   
  


The morning passed in a blur. 

As chairman of the committee for the deployment of Guardian Angels on the Senate, he spent nine to twelve hours every day coordinating placements or reviewing documents or staying two hours late at the office to renegotiate the damn regulations for intervention. That was a lot when you also took into account that he had the Stark district under his jurisdiction. Back in the day, a hundred years or so ago, dear old dad had landed the placement after a successful rescue in WWII. Tony wasn't bitter. He was not. But even now, there were three pure-winged angels inspecting his document with pursed lips because he didn't have the same experience or skills. 'Um, Tony?'

Harley was still finding his feet as being an intern, but he and Gwen stuck together, and some other demon- Tony's stomach turned at the thought of his kids interacting with one of those filthy people- Harry, had taken a shine to them. 'Kid,' he acknowledged. 

'Um. Gwen and I got a tip that there was someone near Hell. Like right by the gates.' 

Tony raised his eyebrows, leaning back. 'An angel?' That was concerning. He didn't remember his time, his three months of punishment, in Hell beyond the heat. The flames, the humidity, the hot tears in his eyes, and careful, controlled warmth of a soldering iron in his hands. He wouldn't wish it on anyone. 

Harley nodded slowly. 'Yeah, with, like, full grown wings and everything.' 

Full grown wings were something of a rarity. Tony's stomach was aflutter, now, with old memories and guts of fear. 'I can check it out?' he asked carefully. Harley looked worried; knocked off his ass worried. Had he been reading horror novels from the library again? 'I'll do it at four.'   
  
  


They dodged a cool breeze carrying a letter, with its trail of sparkles behind it. 'Okay.' He chewed at his lip, wanting to say something. Suddenly, though, he seemed to rethink it, ducking his head. '...bye, then.' He bounced off of the floor, hurrying to somewhere else. Tony stared after him, squinting slightly. Tall, gangly, puffy wings and not broad ones, pale grey suit jacket, and a small smile. He looked fine? 

Tony wasn't sure. All he knew was that the Senate was taking its three month recess after Friday wrapped up and he would be glad to get back into the workshop. 

* * *

The wind carried his wings into the air, brushing his feathers along, lifting him and dipping him. He dove through the clouds, seeing the round Earth below and moving closer. The way to Hell was paved with eerie lights and black stained flowers. Entrances changed every so often, this time it was a forest deep in Scotland. 

When he landed, his wings folded back and he glanced around. This deep in the world, the path was crawling with shadows held in the boughs of pine trees, on the ground itself. The dirt, on first glance, could be very good at growing things, with its rich color. Tony knew better. It was just scorched. Even from here, he could feel the unseasonable heat. The only animals were poor snakes taking advantage of the warmth; they'd die once the entrance changed. Rotund mice scuttled about, the only noise he could hear for miles, it felt like. They crackled the leaves and squeaked and Tony stepped over a massive one with a wound on its belly. He remembered his time in Hell. He remembered it just like this. His pace changed. Faster. 

The path got lower, melting into the ground. At some point, his leather shoes hit rock. The grass faded out, only snatches of ivy bleeding into the cave, as the walls glowed a little with festering heat. More dead animals appeared in his path. He refused to look at them. _Avenging Angel_ , they called him, it was the reason he got his halo, but there was nothing to avenge here. He coughed when smoke wafted into his face, the walls catching it, sending it back and forth until it made his own head spin. Finally, he stepped onto dust. Ash. 

The Gates of Hell were forbiddingly tall, set in black obsidian and locked tight. The report was about an angel, he remembered, outside. He only hoped that they hadn't dragged him through, for fun. But it wasn't the thing to do, for demons, even if it meant a plaything for a little while. He had been the exception. Tony took a deep breath, focusing on what he had come for. 

Gazing around the ashy field with twisted trees rising up out of it along with the tiny, thorny flowers that grew nowhere else, he frowned. There was nothing. Nothing. Just a false alarm. The fire and lava was making him uneasy, even though he knew that the Gate was a barrier unbroken by anyone, and Satan preferred to play with what he already owned. Sulfur rose to his throat and he coughed, leaning forward with wings up to shelter him in a defensive, paranoid gesture. 

It was then that he saw it. Them. The form laying on the ground, a snatch of white wings and a face marred by grey tears. Tony dove for them, ran and dropped to his knees, taking in the damage. It was terrible. Streaks of black over his cheeks, a mop of tangled hair, and patches of blood and burns on his back. He was shivering madly, whining in the back of his throat. But asleep. Harley had been right about the wings. Flight capable. 

Tony ghosted a hand over the worst of the burns and the boy opened his eyes. 'ncle Ben?' he slurred, holding tightly to one of Tony's fingers. Gently, gently, he pushed back the hair. 

'Shh.' The boy clung more to him, feverish and sobbing, and Tony used a delicate hand to take off the sweeping cape he wore to show off his status and tucked it around the boy's shoulders. 'Kid, I'm going to lift you up,' he said steadily. 

With a little magic threading into the air, dangerous games in a place where sensitive demons would rampage at any time, he raised the boy. He screamed slightly , shaking his head. The burns looked livid, but not third degree. Tony's hands shook as he pushed off into the air with wings triple the size of his arm-span. He tucked the boy into his arms, ignoring the near-flaming heat he was suffering from. How long had he been down there? The Hell sickness had to be bad. 'Shhh,' he whispered again, when the boy cried out. He blinked, staring up at Tony's face with eyes that he knew from somewhere.   
  
  
The flight to Heaven was too long. Every second that passed made the boy's breathing labored, every gust of wind stung his burns until they couldn't fly an inch without some terrible noise emerging from his mouth. Finally, though, he caught sight of the green grass suspended in the sky, mountains and lakes hanging there, like they were pulled out of the earth. He stumbled going inside and didn't get balance back, dropping him into a hospital bed. This poor stranger, he thought faintly, taking in the wounds. 

This poor angel. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment ur heart out i stg I will love you forever. 
> 
> GUESS who tipped off the angels!! there are no wrong answers


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nathaniel is the name for the christian angel of fire, if baby name websites are to be trusted :)  
> tw: i don't know other than very very vague medical/hospital stuff  
> in case it is confusing, Tony is part of a High Senate that makes heavenly decisions. I'm sort of world building as I go, but he and the rest of the Avengers serve there six months out of the year. Three month switch offs. Bruce is the official doctor, Steve is Tony's friend, and so are the rest of the avengers.
> 
> short chap today I am very sorry. a little stuck on how to make Peter wake up and I don't know what kind of job I should give Tony when he isn't being a senator

Tony had stationed the angel in his bed in the Senate's medbay, anxiously awaiting news even as he voted on new bills passing through. He remembered the soft screams, crystal clear, and the loud moans and cringes every so often. He wasn't out of his mind with worry; rather, that was Bruce, who supplied him with updates every so often. Well, maybe it was him too. 

They had given him a name. Tony knew that kind of thing was dangerous, to assign someone place in your heart. He didn't remember most people's names. Names were special. Regardless, though, they had decided to give him a name, Nathaniel. Bruce, the official Senate doctor, updated Tony once daily. They were well acquainted, him and Bruce, so the resigned messages were extra friendly.

Dread built as the days went by and "Nathaniel" remained asleep. For someone so obviously unhealthy, he looked sweet. Rumpled hair tucked into the standard-issue pillow, harsh red burns striping up his back. Tony sighed. It had been five minutes since he got to the bed and here he was, expecting a miracle. Where had he even come from? The river, blue and clear, running from the highest point of Heaven? Or Earth? Tony tuned out the loud beeping of the message and the wind sweeping in through a window. The Senate steps were filled with bustle, but Tony was staring at his face. 

See, he could talk about names all he wanted, but it wasn't the name that urged him towards the feelings that threatened to collapse like a tsunami. Over his head. Stuck in the waves, eyes looking down at the sand and dragged out to sea. It wasn't the name, it was his face. He looked, if he were awake, like he would be scared already. Tony wished he could read minds, see what made him look so restless. The biggest problem was that the Senate was taking a recess soon. Tony would step off of his marbled podium. It was common courtesy to provide a bed in the medbay to Senators, and it was also courtesy to give that bed to anyone Tony wanted to sponsor. Now that the building was on skeleton staff? He'd have to figure something out. 

He moved away from the bed, stomach turning slightly. The snuffle of breath and beeping behind him let him know the relative safety of the kid behind him. Safe in here, at least. Out there? Tony couldn't stand to think about how alone and lost he must have felt while it was happening. His wings inadvertently spread out a little, tips touching the ceiling before he hurriedly folded them in, relishing the way the stale air swirled. 'Tony? Is a vote happening soon?'

He looked back at Bruce, nodding. 'Fifteen minutes. If I book it I'm there in five, and ten is more than enough,' he said, offhand.

'Okay then,' Bruce agreed. Always in agreement, Bruce. Tony waved goodbye to "Nathaniel" after a few more minutes of quiet had passed. 

Once in the Senate, he was back to being absorbed in politics. The Committee he was on usually led for the first few weeks of the Senate, but they were markedly quiet now that everything was wrapping up. The High Senate was a trip to be in, from Steve and Bucky in their togas, chiseled chests and noble jaws, to Natasha's wiry, proud jaw as the train of her dress dragged behind her. It was always nice to go back home, to wake up late, build something, but he found himself missing his friends more and more as the years went by.

'Tony!' Steve called, jogging to catch up with him. The final words had been spoken, and the marble doors had swept open one last time. 'I'm hosting a ball. You never replied to the invitation.' Tony blinked, eyes slowly sweeping down the handsome chest Steve put on display- they called him a harlot, behind closed doors, for the toga. Tony liked it. Steve had only gotten bolder as the years went on, unfortunately.

'I think I have to stay in tonight,' he said regretfully. 'And I swear, I meant to reply.' 

They didn't seem so alike as they stopped inside a quiet park, olive trees brushing the tops of iron trellises. Tony in his red suit, decorative halo shining light on his face and illuminating his neat facial hair. Steve was styled like a classical painting. Broad, brave, white wings proudly resting against his back, hair resting softly on his forehead. But he had the humor and force of will to match Tony. That was what really counted. 

'It's fine,' Steve assured him. 'I guess that means I'll see you in three months?' 

'I guess it does.' 

* * *

Tony was sleeping soundly when Bruce fluttered out into the balcony of the spire he lived on. The second Tony was lucid enough to look at him, he knew. 

The booming parade route and the ball Steve was hosting made for busy skies. Tony dove through them with a kind of delicate ease he hadn't felt since- God knew when, since he was a kid frolicking on the banks of Angler River. 

Awake was an overstatement. His clear brown eyes were open, blinking every few seconds. 'Hey.' He didn't respond to words, only pushed his back against the iron headboard. It had to be painful. His wings were still ugly and twisted, and his arms were shaking badly. 

Tony's first thought when Bruce had arrived was that he was glad he wouldn't need to figure out accommodations for him. _Shit_. He was an ass. 'Bud, you in there?' he asked gently. Bruce had made sure he was clear, just shaky and in a fever dream. 

Tony slumped down beside his bed, twisting his ring around his finger and preparing for what he felt could be a long, long sleepless night. He wasn't in here often enough to memorize the pallor of "Nathaniel"s skin, but he could imagine something about him, so that he could taste it. He could imagine his wild eyes screaming at someone, the sight of him smiling, little stories. The scars and big bruise around his temple, the crookedness of his nose. Tony smiled wryly, taking in a deep breath. Tony knew that kind of thing: leaving parts of yourself scattered all over, just in case. Some parts of your heart were stolen, never given back. First heartbreak, first fight, when you molted for the first time. There were parts that he shared, too. Long after he stopped mourning them, Tony still remembered glittering chandeliers and grand staircases when he thought of his parents. He shared a first kiss, long ago, with Pepper. The halo that was casting soft gold shadows on the walls, that was his memories of the otherworld. 

See, Tony was an avenging angel. It was why he was so attached already. He hid it better than poor Steve did, but every time he saw someone hurt, a part of him recoiled. A part of him wanted to punch people's lights out. 

'May,' the kid slurred, eventually. Tony's head snapped up. 

'Not May, kiddo, but if you're hearing me, I'm Tony.' The kid didn't hear him. Tony threaded their hands together and he squeezed down hard, like he wanted to break the bones. His hands were hot. His glassy eyes, his twitching chest- Tony sighed heavily. 

'May?' he rasped again. 'Pl'se.'

Tony got the damp washcloth out of the crystal bowl of water, dabbing it around the bruise without pulling his hand from the kid's. He looked so upset. Terrified, even though his face was calm. Something about the way his fingers looked like metal nails shoved into his hand, and every breath tore out of his chest. Something about him. Natasha, as a girl, before she'd died tragically, was a ballerina, and she'd taken Tony to see a show disguised as a glitzy couple in Paris. The kid was like a pair of pointe shoes.

Tony's fingers curled into a vice grip around his leg. 

When he opened his mouth again, Tony almost thought he was back in the land of the living. A quip was on the tip of his tongue. But the kid just let out a strangled breath, eyelids fluttering shut. Restless; they wouldn't quite close. Even asleep, he was paranoid. 'You want me to tell you a story?' 

'Ben,' the kid pleaded. 

'I'm not him, sweetheart,' Tony drawled. 'This one is called Goodnight Moon and you get to hear it because it's the only one I know from memory. Goodnight room, goodnight moon. Goodnight cow jumping over the moon. Goodnight light and the red balloon. Goodnight bears and goodnight chairs. Goodnight kittens, and goodnight mittens. Goodnight clocks, and goodnight socks. Godnight little house, and goodnight mouse. Goodnight comb and goodnight brush, goodnight nobody, goodnight mush.'

'Tony?' Bruce asked, amused. 

'And goodnight to the good doctor whispering "hush." Goodnight stars and goodnight air. Goodnight noises everywhere.' Tony levelled a look at Bruce. 'Interrupting is rude, you know.' 

'Sure, Senator,' he replied lightly. Tony sat back. 

'I guess this means I'll be taking him home tomorrow.' Tony swallowed. 'Anything I need?' 

'I'm sure that you'll take good care of him.'

'We can only hope,' Tony muttered. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chap: Tony can't take the dry-humored, easygoing approach he does to every other kid, Peter will outmatch him.  
> i know that it's a little ooc to have Peter as a darker, rebellious character, but i DO promise that he isn't going to be super sarcastic and aloof, like the kid who's cooler than everyone else, if you know what i mean. he needs a father figure, a family figure, and Tony will be that! just takes a little time.  
> message me on tumblr or send in an ask if you want to talk about the story!! my @ is [ jean-and-diet-coke](https://jean-and-diet-coke.tumblr.com/)
> 
> getting messages is my FAV thing EVER so don't be a stranger!!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was SO HARD TO WRITE!
> 
> if you're interested in stevetony or ironhusbands though! I just posted some of those things so I didn't lose my writing momentum and now I'm back to writing this story whenever I can. also taking prompts on my tumblr asjfehvledk I love writing so much
> 
> idk how much of a warning this needs but there are minor things scattered throughout: there are some basic, very brief intrusive thoughts w/ scissors (I forgot to warn for this I have so many intrusive thoughts that I legit forgot to warn at first. sorry)

Static music scratched through the speakers a couple feet away. Peter was blurry but very awake, hyper aware of every noise against the room's walls. It felt beige, like mildewed speakers and hot garbage. Peter kept his eyes shut, breathing softly and feeling the oddly long hair framing his face brush at his cheeks. He shifted slightly, ill at ease. 

A burning pain flamed hot on his wings. His eyes stayed closed but his hands fisted the bedsheets until the knuckles were white. 

Ice was like fire, in a way, and he knew both very well. Beneath the blankets, his hands were starting to tremble. But it still felt... numb. Bones. Freezing bones, buried beneath a block of ice, pounding head. His eyes cracked open. As soon as Peter saw the room was empty, he stumbled to his feet. Harry had- he had done this to him. Peter was going to get back at him. Soon. One day. His eyes cracked open, through crustiness on his eyelashes. His muscles were sore and down to his veins he was sore. The burns itched under his skin but the lightest brush against any of them made him tear up. 

Slowly, he rose from the bed, eyes dark as they swept across the floor. It didn't look bad. The room. It looked old, in the way that mansions like this sometimes did, but kept fine. Not like how he always remembered Harry's mansion as. His feet were bare and there was a hospital gown on him, gauzy and pure white. He twisted it in his fingers, ripping it like paper so it hung in torn sheets, exposing angry red scars he caught a glimpse of in the window's reflection. And then he saw the view. This was a mansion, but in the distance, towering above long rows of pine trees, was a cream colored castle. On the other side of the room were more windows, and the view there was equally spectacular. He glared at the golden city, far in the distance, hobbling to the bed and crawling back in. 

Peter was burned, light pain, compared to the utter agony he had in Hell, but still cold. The bedroom was too close to the clouds. He puled a fuzzy blanket over his shoulders, shoving his feet up towards his stomach and keeping a blank, if a little disdainful face focused on the door. He wasn't waiting for long. 

'Oh, God,' the man at the door breathed. 'You're actually- you're really awake.' He seemed to take a deep breath. Peter liked the color of red he was wearing, vaguely. 'Holy hell.'

He was blank for a moment before sitting gingerly on the bed. 'You got some nicer clothes for me? I'm not appreciating the dress.' 

The man laughed softly, wrinkled with smile lines. Peter, as a contrast, stretched out languorously, cat like under the blankets. A flash of his legs peeked out, angry and defiant, but the man seemed... oblivious. Peter's wings fluttered and he inwardly screamed at them, the tough muscle and soft feathers that were so, so comforting if they weren't a sign of pure weakness. 'I'm Tony. Stark.'

Peter eyed Stark, pushing at the inside of his cheek with his tongue so it popped out. 'Nice to meet you.' 

A pile of clothes landed on the bed next to them. Peter picked a floaty silk shirt, scraping his fingernail across the fabric until threads were loose. They both watched as the spidery, thin strand of silk pulled out of the cloth, and Stark inspected him with a closer look. Peter eyed him up and down, long red nails going back to the pile of clothes at hand. It wasn't anything he was used to. The sheer shirts and glitter in Hell always seemed to be filthy or broken. 'You know where you are. Right?' 

The second he'd seen a glimpse outside the window, tall, pale blue and gold buildings and an endless airway beneath him, he'd known. 'Yeah,' he said, face slowly morphing into something closed off and haughty. 'Leave. I need to change.' 

He flung the extra clothes back at Stark, who tried to offer a smile. He seemed confused. Typical. 

* * *

The next day was the worst adjustment he'd ever made. Peter wasn't used to it. The stupid bowl of fruit on the counter and the room he'd been shown to- _I didn't want the light from the windows to wake you up,_ he'd said- and the wardrobe full of pretty, pretty fabrics. There wasn't a drop of anything good in the house, so he was stuck wandering around, starved for attention, and avoiding Stark once he came home. 

If what he'd observed was correct, Stark worked as a scientist or engineer. He disappeared to a lab across town every morning and came back, exhausted but content, in the evenings. Peter was largely ignorant of it. At first, it had been almost nice. He'd taken advantage of the quiet. Every other second was spent thinking about the brutal revenge he'd exact on Harry's smug, pig face once he got back in, and he kept thinking about how scared his friends- some friends they were- had looked. He didn't look in the mirror. He didn't look himself in the eyes. He was scared of everything, every noise that creaked inside of the walls and every old, shrill ring of the telephone. 

There were five of them inside of the old mansion and they rang all the time. Peter liked the rotary style and the ceramic of them. There was a little elegance to be had. They rang off and on the entire day, disturbing his moments of peace the moment they appeared. He was a nocturnal creature, Peter. He would pretend to be asleep so the strange angel would ignore him and then jump out of bed and eat pickles out of the jar, mouth stinging, the second he knew Stark was asleep. He'd explored the entire house and he liked it, too. 

There were three balconies where he could sit in the sun and get a taste of familiar heat. No matter how sick and feverish he'd felt languishing in the fire, he missed it. The rest of the house was spacious, more than even fucking Harry's dad's. When the thought crossed his mind, he clamped his mouth shut, listlessness taking off for a moment and making room for a little fear. Every time he thought of the hollow cheeks, the secretive smile, he shivered slightly. 

Peter looked out the window, twitching irritably and yanking it shut with one, final motion. The phone rang. Again. He picked his way over, boredly, raising it to his ear. 'Stark residence, who is this?' he asked, the words feeling carefully crafted. The wire twirled on his finger. 

'I- what? Who is this?' A man's voice asked on the other end. 

'Your worst nightmare,' Peter drawled in response, leaning back. 'I'm his nephew.' 

There was a pause over the phone line. 'Tony doesn't have a brother. Who are y-' Peter grimaced and slammed the phone back, twitching anxiously. 

There was something that felt refreshing about the call. He bit his lip, pacing back and forth. The light footsteps didn't extend past a single floorboard and they landed in a neat rhythm of eight counts. Stark was going to kick him out soon. If he kept up this behavior. Against his will, he smiled slightly, lips curling upwards. He could always count on drama when he was in Hell. 

Well fuck. Now, he just felt sick. MJ probably still felt shocked, angry at his deceptions, and Johnny had to be in that mood that he had, almost- almost!- serious, but not quite. He could never be serious, Johnny. It was all fun with him. Peter smiled bitterly, flinging open the doors of the wardrobe in Stark's room. Officially, he wasn't allowed in there, but Peter didn't care that much. He lived in a constant state of on-edge anyway. He was always waiting for All Powerful, Extra Special Demon Lord Norman Osborn to stalk into the room and drag him away. This was comparatively much easier to work with. The days dragged on in here. Long nights, sleepless, and even longer days. 

From what Flash, the fucker, had told him, it would be more interesting and glamorous. Instead, Peter was sitting in a room with all of the curtains closed, picking at his skin and staring at the wardrobe of a man he barely knew the name of. _Attention whore_ , Johnny would have called him, teasingly, when he was in this strange of a mood, skulking around and prodding people to go out with him. 

The phone went off again. It was a shrill noise. _Brrrr-ing!_ Peter picked it up. 'No one's home, fuck off,' he said casually, this time to a woman's voice. 

His wings still hurt. That was the worst part. Stranded. Broken. Easily beaten. Defenseless, powerless, a wimp, only sparkles and white feathers to protect him. 'Pathetic,' he murmured, dragging a long evening gown out from the closet and letting it crumple on the floor. 

Everything was so _pretty_ here. It was off putting. (Secretly, he liked it. He liked pretty things more than was probably necessary.) He'd seen all the major fashion trends on Flash and Liz Allan, and could tell just by looking that it was a few years out of date. He slashed a hole in it with his nails. They were still sharp, yet the red was growing out. 'Jarvis!' he said, chewing on the inside of his cheek, 'Order some stick and pokes.' 

'Yes, sir.' 

He could cut the wings off. It made his stomach clench in discomfort to even think of, but surgeries were common. 'Jarvis? Order a pack of fishnets,' he said. The response was swamped, swept away by a wave of exhaustion like a gash bleeding. Energy left him in huge rushes and like a wasting maiden, he'd sit for hours, stewing in himself. 

A pair of scissors glinted in the dying sunlight next to a window. Next to them was a sewing machine. Peter could tell already that it didn't get much use. He banged out a couple of stitches on a piece of practice fabric before taking the voluminous dresses and getting ready to edit them down. They wasn't very much left when he was done. 

A sheer collared shirt, left open, hung off of his spiny shoulders and a skirt with a reckless slit up the side finished the look. It felt more... normal. At least. Peter got all his clothes secondhand from Johnny or Wade- not that Wade took good enough care of his clothes to hand any of it down- and all of it was broken in some way. he scratched his hands through his hair, slowly beginning to groom the wings. 

A unique perfumed scent hung in the air of the bathroom of his bedroom and it had everything he'd need for the full grown wings he had. Peter didn't know, though, whether that was an act of thoughtfulness or whether every guest got the luxury. Stark was obviously rolling in it. He looked at the floor when he said that. A terrified lump grew in his tummy. He didn't know. He didn't know anything about the man who took him in. After a deep breath, he came to the conclusion that Stark was an _angel_. He'd never do anything bad. 

* * *

Thirsty for attention, Peter joined Stark for dinner that night in typical clothes, not the cobbled mess he was beginning to put together. 'How was your day?' he asked awkwardly. 

Peter sighed breathily, cocking his head. 'Boring,' he said eventually. Stark's face fell. On the surface, Peter was- neutral. But his muscles were bunched tight and the vice grip he had on his fork was nothing close to okay. His head was spinning. He'd eaten nothing. 

'There anything I can do for you? Get for you?' Stark continued carefully. 

Peter eyed him. 'How about a golden retriever?' Stark looked bewildered for a half second before it turned into a teasing, knowing smile. 

'Come on, kid, I'm the one who's supposed to be teasing _you_. I've been at Congress for months, and now you're making me think?' Peter pinched his thigh, noting down that Stark was a Senator. 

Senator Stark. Huh. He didn't seem the type. 'Where are you working now?' he asked, frown wrinkling his face. 

'Huh? Oh, you know, here and there. There's a workshop and a lab that I use frequently. My staff are there with me.' No name. Peter shoved another bite of taco down his throat, feeling the hairspray plastered all over his hair cracking a little. 

Stark stared at him and Peter tensed, unmoving, under the sharp gaze. 'Can I be excused?' he asked, before Stark could question him any further. 

'Sure, kid. Sure thing.' Peter swallowed, grabbing the bottle of soda by the neck and gripping it hard. Magic was looping through the air, he could feel it. Stark never meant to do it. His magic was cage-like. Peter was drawn to it, like a moth to a light, anyways. It felt so nice on his skin, a warm pair of arms. Or something. 

In the room he was staying in, alone, he laid back on the bed, wings tucked around him. 

Tomorrow. He could go tomorrow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you liked this comment perhaps? i am so excited for dramatic bitch peter to make his way into this next chapter!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's been so long. hopefully you like it? the drama was in full force lol.
> 
> if you wanna ask questions or give prompts my askbox on [ tumblr](https://jean-and-diet-coke.tumblr.com/) is always open!!
> 
> Gwen and Harley will be redeemed ofc I just thought this was a fun intro to them.

Peter woke up at 4 in the morning, or at 11. No in between. Today it was 4. 

He got up out of bed. Every time- it had been a little less than two weeks- every time he got out of bed, he missed it a little more. His mattress had been a mattress. This bed was home. It smelled a little like ash. Not in a bad way. But still ash. And the sheets were so warm that he was convinced electricity threaded through them. The bathroom was even better. A fluffy hairbrush that he used to groom his wings, too, and the shower was _hot_. Peter didn't like it here. He didn't. But he also didn't miss the comforts of home.

Mostly because there were no comforts to miss. He drifted along the hallway, ducking into the kitchen for a scalding cup of coffee before Stark was even awake. And once he heard Stark up, he dumped the rest of his coffee, ghosting away to his bedroom to sulk. A repertoire of books lay in the library and he'd slowly been reading them, blacking out margins because he thought it looked better that way. Well, he _had_ been. Until some piece of crap YA heroine who was too special to have friends did it in one of those books, crossing out her little lines. Then, he just started tearing them up. Right. So. He hummed lowly, squinting down at the map book. 

He wasn't really sure what heaven _was_ , exactly, just that it was high above his old home and whimsical, pretty. Bloated, perfect cities lived alongside pastoral countrysides and the ocean lapped away, endless. Tony's mansion was so different from his old- it couldn't even be called a home- messy, hole in the wall residence. It was an alien place. Celestial. Peter grinned, the smile like a knife on his lips, reckless. 

The skirt was red. Velvety. And the matching leather top was already uncomfortable, intrinsically, and the tights would scratch in the worst way. He covered the ensemble with a cape and left anyway, following the route through the buildings to the scientific institute where Stark worked. He reached the sidewalk and his feet tapped away into the building.

Heads turned. His skin prickled. But it also flamed, too, licking up his skin. Where he'd come from, he'd be one among many, but here- here all eyes were on him in surprise. 'Sir? What are you doing here?' a receptionist asked. He bit his lip, grinning hard, and leaned close.

'Can you direct me to Tony Stark's office?'

It was down the hall, all the way to the end, and then to the right. Fourth door, he wasn't supposed to miss it, it was the prettiest. He was stopped within a few feet down the hallway by two clean cut, curious angels about his age. Peter shifted on his feet. 'Peter,' he drawled. 

The girl's smile dimmed into forced politeness. 'Gwen. And this is Harley.' 

Without making time for niceties and the like, Harley interrupted. 'What do you want with Tony?' Peter blinked. 

'Just going to say hi.' He'd got what he wanted here, anyway. The satisfaction sat heavy in his gut, the satisfaction of being seen again. 'What's it to you?'

He had fuzzy little baby wings, her too, and Peter's were full grown. Maybe they were _jealous_. Or was that a sin? 'You're going to embarrass him,' Gwen said, hesitating. 

'What, is it my outfit?' he asked, blood rushing through his veins. It seemed to vibrate in glee and he smiled widely. 'Or my general demeanor?'

Gwen sighed restlessly. 'What do you need him for?' They exchanged a look. 'We're his interns.'

Peter folded in on himself. This game wasn't fun anymore. 'Good for you.'

Harley's jaw clenched. He seemed fed up, already, of Peter's bullshit. _Great_. At least in Hell, prospects had been so poor that even their shitty group was the talk of the town. 'Yeah, thanks. Why don't you clear out. We'll leave a message.'

Peter cocked an eyebrow at him, smiling lazily. 'Attention, everyone! Harley and Gwen don't want me here because I'm dressed like a hooker!' The two of them froze and the few occupants of the room turned to them. 

THe receptionist looked concerned. 'Mrs. Arbogast, of course it isn't true,' Gwen rushed to say. Harley clamped down on Peter's arm, dragging him away. 

'Listen here, dude, stop it right now. Yeah, you're dressed- I don't know, you're dressed like this, alright, but don't embarrass us like that! Especially Gwen!' he told Peter heatedly. 

'My apologies,' Peter said stuffily. 'I'll never make you sad again, poor thing!' He stood up again, and passed by Harley, who was powerless to stop him with anything more than gritted teeth. 'Mr. Stark! I've come to visit!

'Peter? What are you doing here?'

'You _know_ him?' Gwen asked, flabbergasted. Tony was pointedly not looking at Peter's outfit, which was funny. Maybe. 

'Peter lives with me.' Tony squeezed his shoulder and lightning quick, Peter batted his hand away. 'How's the day been, kid? Anything you need right now?'

'Just thought I'd check the place out.' For some reason, Stark seemed softer here. Relieved. But why? What was he relieved about? 'It's a nice thing you've got going there.' He spralwed out on the couch, flicking a motion machine and rubbing his hands together. 

'She's my pride and joy,' Stark told him, distracted by whatever -serum? Or chemical?- heating up in the beaker in front of him.

'You two can go,' Peter told them. They waited for Tony to chime in, say something- _you can stay_ , or _Peter, get out of here_ \- but got nothing. Peter stared at them steadily until they walked out of the room. 

And then he slumped back on the couch, thinking back. He didn't like either of them. Typical. Beyond the... _basic_ enjoyment of Stark's company and dumb face, he didn't like anyone here so far. Oh well. He'd better just keep looking. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry- this is LATE. I'm hoping to get back into writing it more though. I swear it's not abandoned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please note this trigger warning: the beginning of this chapter FINALLY deals with Peter's friends' reactions to his death. You can expect grief/mourning, talk of suicide (MJ) and the general terribleness of Hell (yet again) 
> 
> then we move onto lighter topics with Ned <3

There were two things MJ knew for a fact: one of her best friends was dead.

And she was sure she wanted to be, too.

Peter was dead; MJ was bitter. And broken on the inside, ready to throw herself off a cliff. But no. No, she _couldn't_ do _that_ , she was too special. Not like the near suicidal antics Wade pulled were anything different than her determined, self directed downward spiral. They just read MJ's honesty right. Wade was wobbling and radioactive, but he was _always_ that way. MJ was not typically this visibly close to a meltdown.

She stomped through the hallways, rubbing at the deep lines of worry at the sides of her eyes, like they would just disappear. They were burning his things today. Peter's things. 

Everything in her, everything deep to her bones, just felt hollow. MJ had no clue how to describe it. It was probably stupid, anyway. 'Hey,' a man growled, stepping forward. She stopped short, narrowing her eyes. 

'Let go of me.' He curled his lip.

'What are you doing running through the place? You want to _be_ somewhere?' he asked, tugging insistently on her wrist. An ugly piercing had been driven into his forehead and she reached up to tug at it harshly. 

'Anywhere but near you,' she said boredly. 'Now, you gonna let go, or are your horns a match for mine?' She let go of the piercing to push at the tiny growths and he cringed. She flipped her wrist and shoved him away. 

'I'd listen to her.' Of course, there went Johnny. 'How are you, MJ?'

'Just fine, Johnny.' She shivered, moving her shoulders back as she walked forward. 'You have everything? Everything we need?' Smoke and steam blew up from a flapping vent on the floor and she avoided it, pushing her skirt down. Arrowhole windows faced outside. Mere slits. It was the only light in there. 

Johnny flamed up. 'I have everything,' he confirmed. 'Wade's already there.' 

MJ knew about stupid human funerals. Wearing all black and watching people read off memories colored with ash, lowering someone into the ground. 'He's not-'

'I think Wade is taking it seriously, for once,' Johnny said wryly. MJ didn't smile, as a rule, but it did make her pleased. They made the trek down to the lava lake, passing a spindly tree of coal and stopping just shy of the bubbling magma. All three of them were wearing their nicest clothes. Johnny dropped the stack of Peter's stuff on the floor. 

'Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we are gathered here today,' Wade began in a deep voice, like a game show announcer. 

'Shut the fuck up,' MJ told him tonelessly. 'We're here for Peter. Parker. We're here to lay you to rest, because we were proud to call you a friend. There's nothing more familiar to me than you.' She stepped back, leaning against a tree. 

Silence. Peter, the thing about him, is he'd been so nice. MJ was heartless biologically, but it still tangled underneath her to hear Wade chatting to Peter like he was still there. Peter had been so nice. She breathed in and out, carefully watching her skin turn from ashy to bright red as emotions ran higher and she began to glow. She was going to miss him so much. Touching him, talking to him, him touching her, hugging her around her waist and not saying a word, when they were alone. She pushed her hand onto her face, pressing at her eyes. She had blamed him. Resented him for his secrets, and they got him killed, and MJ wished to die _with him_. 

'Buddy,' Johnny began softly, barely a breath. 'Hey, buddy, hope you're living it up wherever you are now. You know we love you. We love you so much, Peter, we wanted you happy.' She saw him slowly break into flame and watched tenderness like she had never even _seen_ radiate from him. 'You meant a lot to me. Buddy.' He closed his eyes in pain. 'You meant so much to us all. I want to hold you again,' he choked out. 'Just to make sure you're okay.'

Wade dropped Peter's book into the fire. Every demon had one, and since Peter was gone, his book would die with him. They were just spells and shit, MJ knew hers didn't matter a lot. Only- sentimental. 'Don't be a baby,' she told Johnny directly, swallowing her voice down and folding a few flowers into the bundle. 

'I miss him so much.' Johnny was squatting, pushing the bundle into the lake. It was fireproof, mostly. It would just sink. 

MJ's eyes flitted shut. 'We love you,' she said. It felt scary to say and she didn't like it one bit, but Wade huddled a bit into her shoulders and MJ- she knew she had to be okay sometime soon because she was surrounded by two overwrought messes and she didn't want to fall into their trap. 

* * *

Peter wandered down the narrow steps into the bright little kitchen, squinting. 'How's the morning, kiddo?' Tony asked gently. 'I got us food. Snacks.' 

Peter stared, gliding forward. There was a whole dining table set up outside, by the shallow, clear blue pool. 'Nice,' he said, clearing his throat. Quietly and somewhere else, he suspected the roughness was not caused by morning. Tony had a nice robe on and he was flipping through the paper by the counter. Peter drifted out there. The little patio was warm, from the sun, and it was such a pleasant warmth that he felt like dry heaving, resting his head on the ground and falling into an endless sleep. Like a cat. The table looked beautiful. Fruits piled high and a little tray of coffee with sugar and cream. He poured himself a cup on instinct, skin prickling at the realization that he did this every morning, now. 

'I'm fairly proud of these pancakes,' Stark told him amiably, putting a fork into one giant, fluffy- Peter was skeptical of their reality. He'd never seen anything like them before. 'Look, that's at least inches,' he bragged, measuring the height. 

'I didn't know you cooked this well,' Peter told him, uncertain, with his chin jutting forward. He grabbed three of them and a little clementine. 

Stark laughed and automatically Peter wanted to bristle. He tamped it down and replaced it with a frosty smile. 'God, no. Happy made this. He's quite the chef in training.' 

Fucking. His name was Happy. The Seven Dwarves lived in Heaven, and they were friends with Stark. Even his name was repulsive. The urge to lash out automatically had faded otherwise he would say something rude on autopilot. 'Good for him.' Peter systematically ate half the clementine and took some pears, spreading a little bit of soft cheese on top. 

'So you like it, then? Do you want to do this more often?' Stark asked him hesitantly. Peter chewed one last bite of extra fluffy pancake. 

'I don't have a say, Stark. I'm your ward.' Stark gently reached out, rapping the table and lowering his sunglasses. 

'Hey, call me Tony. And you realize you're a lot more than that? You know that, right?' Peter did not. 'Tony.' Stark leaned back. Or, Tony did. 'You're not my son, obviously, but, uh, you're my kid for the time being.'

Peter nodded slightly. 'Cool.' There it was again. His voice was rough like sand in between his toes. 

'I got something special, hang on.' Peter watched him go. With no suit jacket on, just his pants and shirt, plus that robe, he looked human. The wingspan may have ruined it, but it was a nice thing to look at. Peter had never met someone quite so fatherly since Ben. 'Donut holes!' he said cheerfully. 

'What are they?' 

'Oh, you really have led a deprived childhood,' Tony snorted. 'Donut holes are the dough from the inside of donuts. Try one. Donuts are my weakness.' He had powdered sugar all around his mouth. 

Peter shot him a quizzical look, then took a bite. He was a twisting river, getting dragged deeper and deeper, towards contentment and he'd sometimes felt an urge to laugh, lately, and he was being dragged away from vigilance and fear and everything he was supposed to feel- 'It's nice.' 

He dusted his fingers off on a napkin. 'You're welcome.' Tony smiled deeply, getting out his paper. 'My day is free all today, is there anything you want to do?' Peter perked up; he had been waiting for this question. 

* * *

'Okay, so, from what I've heard, this Grecian thing is back in style,' Tony told him, giving him the laydown. 'Then, we also have clothes like yours and mine, which is obviously, you know, my preference. You don't have the most pronounced style, I bet you could mix and match. I think you need pajamas, right? And every day clothes.' 

Peter cocked his head, staring at the cream colored linen pants, lined with a heavy tan fabric. He made his own clothes, a lot. Right now, he was wearing a normal outfit and getting stares. Oh, they just didn't appreciate leather shirts the way he did. 'I need formal clothes, to,' he said flatly. His gut squeezed with want. _want._ He didn't usually covet things like this. Tony wasn't looking; he put it in the cart. 

'One second, Pete, I gotta go field this call. Gwen is at the lab alone and she needs help.' Peter grinned, waving him off. Tony looked surprised but pleased, beaming back. The second he was out of sight, Peter picked neatly through the store. 

Sheer overlay dress. _Check_. Sweater, the same soft one, in blue, red, purple, and black. Check. He had to get through wing sizing, always a pain, but he knew his measurements. Socks. He hadn't had new socks in years. Big fleecy paints. Another Greek thing to follow the trends. Pants that were extra big. Another fuzzy top. It looked like something Johnny would wear. 

Suddenly, he pressed himself against a wall. Johnny. Not like they'd be missing him, they didn't make attachments, and even though it had been sweet while it lasted, peaceful, they'd stood by while Harry betrayed him. Peter was preoccupied with revenge. Even still. He stared at the floor, missing Johnny, who he had liked- loved- and MJ, who was doubly as affectionate as Wade, and Wade who would always bring things back for Peter when he could, Harry who got so damn excited about new things happening in the Republic's rooms that he would whisper the secrets of politics into Peter's ear. Johnny, again, and he shut his fucking mouth to ward against the emotions like vomit spilling out. 

'I don't think this one will fit right,' he heard a voice stress. Peter slinked away from the rack, taking the little metal cart along. 

The boy standing there was flushed, slightly, but he looked nice. Peter leaned next to him. 'I say get it,' he said, focusing in on the thing. His wings flared but he tried to force them back. Annoying balls of feathers fucking- 'It would look nice on you.' 

'See?' She was equally friendly and Peter swallowed, picking up a pair of butterflied tights. They went in the cart. He could hear their whispers just beyond him, but he didn't eavesdrop. 'Thank you.' Her smile was dimpled. Peter grinned back. 

'You're welcome.' He took a nice little cape from the rack. Was that a straw hat... He bumped into the boy. 'Watch where you're going.' He narrowed his eyes, wings extending as he reached past the fedoras for the straw hats. The tip of one wing snagged a brown hat. 

'Sorry.' The boy hesitated. 'Could I have that one?' He plucked it off of Peter's wingtip. A tiny smile emerged helpless on his face. 

'No problem. Yours are pretty,' he said offhand. They really, really were. They glittered slightly, too, and they were sleeker than the wind. 

'Oh.' He ducked his head. 'I'm Ned.' When he looked up, his dimples were showing. Peter tilted his head to the side, itching to introduce himself in turn. 

'Peter.' He glanced over- Tony was outside of the department store and nowhere in sight. 'Could you give me advice on these shirts?' 

'Those are your style?' Ned asked, eyes wide as he looked past Peter to the pun shirts. Peter shrugged. 'Auntie, I'm going to help him.' She waved him off, inspecting one of those chiton things. 

'I think they look nice. I really don't care if they match,' he said, pulling the cart along. Peter just wanted stuff. He wanted pretty things, he wanted handsome things and things that were soft and maybe it would be nice if they fit him really well, like a permanent hug. 'What do you like to wear?' 

'Stuff like this if I'm at home. If I'm going out, my mom likes me to wear nicer things.' He was wearing something dark blue and intricate, a color that flattered his skin and his wings. Peter studied him as he flipped through one of the racks. 'All I want to wear is pajamas,' he laughed. 

'That must be nice,' Peter agreed. There went a bright white pair of shorts- they would probably look bad on him. 'I like this velvety stuff.' He kept running his hands over the fabric, finally tugging the hanger towards him and into the bag. 

'I'm so busy that I've grown out of most of my clothes so my aunt is taking me out.' Peter frowned. 

'How do people let loose around here?' Without even trying, a dangerous smile played on his lips. 'I'm taking suggestions.' 

Ned smoothed the fabric of a nearby skirt. 'They just go out, you know. Not many people host parties. There is one girl. Tonight. Liz Allan.' Peter jerked. 'I'm going, you could be my wingman.'

'Finding someone to hook up with?' Ned flushed. 

'Something like that. I really could take you, if you needed.' Peter lifted his chin. 

'I'd love to come. I live here,' he said, pulling the cap off of his pen and writing his address down on Ned's arm. When he looked up, Ned was squinting at him. Like he didn't know what to make of Peter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk if anyone is still reading this, but if you are, I'd totally appreciate a comment! I never know who's still interested in these later chapters.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not many people commented on the last chapter, but I got 3!!! and that's really good enough for me :) If you did, special shoutout to you!! it was the boost I needed! I hope everybody reading likes this next bit <3
> 
> anyway warnings: Ned and Peter go to. a party??? and there's a cliffhanger, so if you want to avoid that, wait for chapter ten perhaps??

From what Peter gathered, most of Stark's work had to do with building things. With engineering. And then, of course, the fact that he was a Senator. The large and golden city, miles away, that he was achingly curious of. He wondered if most Senators there were like Tony. Peter was never sure what to expect from a politician, because the only ones he really knew were horrifically scary. There was nothing like the swing of a surgically attached pair of spiralling horns and the razor sharp edge of a pair of wings to haunt his memories. Peter knew those politicians, and hated them with a passion. He also knew Lord Osborn, who was both smug and icicle cold. 

Stark was neither of those things, of course. He was sometimes lit by the gentle glow of a halo, and he had big wings that tended to flop around when he was shuffling about in his slippers. Peter was constantly bewildered by it. He was an _avenging angel_. School had never taught much, but Flash's incessant bragging informed Peter on the inner workings of Heaven. If you were an avenging angel, you were uniquely special. The best thing, though, about Stark, was that he was by far the easiest person to lie to. "Hey, put your stuff away!" he yelled. "Make sure to wash the underwear before you wear it!"

Peter scampered into his bedroom and stashed it all away into the back of the closet. Flopping on the sheets, eyes on the ceiling, he listened for movement. They had had a long day. Stark was tired. He had a good chance of being in bed soon, and Peter would make his move then and get ready for the party. Or he could just get ready now. He stumbled to his feet, walking to the closet. He could wear that silk shirt and underneath it, a sequined tank top. That would look appropriately wild. He tugged the silk shirt in question out of the drawer, holding it up to the light. High shine. Johnny would have liked it. "Trying new stuff on?" Stark leaned in the doorway. 

Peter nodded wordlessly. "I was homeschooled and I didn't usually get much new clothes,' he added for clarification. 

Tony pulled up a chair, grinning. 'You do have style, though,' he said with a nod. 'That comes from the inside. I'm a funny case, honestly. All my friends are either very chic or they're hilariously unfashionable. Have you seen those articles on the Van Dyne's? They're a dynasty, all right,' he chuckled. 'Hope is friends with my buddies Steve and Wanda- they're always getting in these magazines and stuff. Not like I did,' he snorted. 'I used to be in magazines for things I'd rather not remember. At least it was interesting.' 

'Is Steve the one you're always calling?' Peter asked, narrowing his eyes. 

'That's him.' Tony smiled fondly. 'He's the one.' 

'He's your best friend,' Peter laughed. 'Aren't you ninety thousand years old? Above these mortal things?' 

Tony made an indignant noise. 'I'm a lot younger than that,' he countered. 'You're off about a few tens of thousands of years.' The sarcasm was familiar in a way that would be comforting, if it didn't put Peter back in a thousand places, a thousand conversations, that were just like this only less soft. He knew just as much about Tony in a single month- the small things, tiny ones, like his favorite foods and the way he did the laundry- as he had about Wade in an entire year. 

'A few thousand, so you're fifty thousand years old,' Peter said to himself. 

A little sputter died abruptly. 'You're pulling my leg!' Tony announced. 'Didn't know kids could be such assholes. Harley does this, but _you_? My golden child? I nursed you back to health! I know one- one!- angel that is above 1000 years old. And he's the big boss. Like I said-' He pointed at Peter- 'You're an asshole.'

'I won't deny it.' He smiled slightly, standing. 'Didn't you want to go to bed?' 

'Right. I just wanted to let you know- this weekend I will be charged with hosting a getaway for a few friends. Gwen and Harley will be there, you can make friends with them.' Peter barely stopped himself from scoffing. There wasn't a good chance of that happening. 'Mostly just a dinner. My real best friend, his name is Rhodey, he'll be staying in a guest room. He's pretty busy anyway, but I'm sure you're going to be begging to spend time with him. _I'll_ be doing that.' 

'Sounds good.' Peter tucked his feet under him, wings spreading high. 'Anything else?' His voice was short; clipped. 

'No, nothing. Good night. Sweet dreams.' And Peter watched him walk out.

* * *

Messy hair, loud chains of swirling silver dangling from his ears, and gems on his feathers. Peter had never once looked like this before. In the mirror, he didn't recognize himself. 

Fully confident that Tony was asleep, he glided down the stairs to see the door. Ned was anxious, all aflutter, out there. 'Am I dressed to be a good wingman?' Peter asked, raising his eyebrows.

'Wow! You look great!' Ned beamed. 

Peter did not compute. Not one bit. Either Ned was lying, or he was terrifyingly honest, because that was not an easily won compliment. He took a moment to look at his _pal's_ outfit. Peter would call Ned anything but a friend, he decided in that moment. 'You look nice too. Are you- you ready to go?' 

Ned pushed his shoulders back. 'Ready as I'll ever be. This is a nice house for flying,' he told Peter, slightly wistful. 'I like the platform.' 

Peter grinned and took off, reckless. 'Where are we landing?' he murmured. 'You'll have to lead the way.'

Ned did a barrel roll, swooping into a glide. 'Just follow me. I'm so glad that I'm staying with my aunt, my mom would never ever let me do this,' he said excitedly. 'Liz Allan is one of those angels that everyone is wary of. There are rumors. Of her Dad. I think they're lies, but I don't always know a lot. Thanks for doing this on short notice, I don't have many spontaneous friends, well- well, friends, at all, there are nice people but I have to stick to myself. Believe me, I'm grateful for this. I hope you enjoy the party,' he rambled. 

A half smile slipped onto Peter's face. 'I'm here for the drinking,' he said, no other context. If Ned was so thin skinned that he couldn't even deal with the idea that he wasn't Peter's first choice all the time, Peter wasn't sure they could be friends. 

'I figured.' His lungs collapsed in a sigh. Peter spoke everything into the in between spaces. He breathed off beat, he felt. He didn't say things out loud. Ned's unsubtelty was both refreshing and it made him wary. He just wanted to watch the night unfold from the back and pretend he understood what was going on in his life. 

'I hope there's not much dancing,' Peter said quietly. 'I have to get _really_ drunk if you want me on the dance floor.' 

The night pushed their wings down and they both set into matching dives, swooping into place and bumping into each other. Peter steadied Ned with a hand on his shoulder. 'Me too! Did you see- I got the new hat.' He looked more tense than a rubber band. 

Peter straightened it for him. 'You look glorious.' He swallowed and walked with no fear into the bustle. 'This garrison is interesting,' he said softly. Large pillars held up even larger windows. He could count, in five seconds, at least 10 drunk teenagers. And that was only the visibly drunk ones. Oh yeah. He'd fit right in with this garrison. 

'Don't call it that.' Was there different terminology? Peter thought they were called garrisons. The problem he was running into was that he wanted to stay: and angels, especially angels that had purportedly been in Heaven their entire life, would know these things. Brain addlement from burned wings only went so far, as an excuse. 'Is that peppermint schnapps?' He snatched some pretzels. Ned was staring at the large table, more crowded than even the couches pushed to the sides, because it was full of large bottles of high quality booze. 

'Is it?' Peter drawled, walking after him. He suppressed a giggle. Angels loved _peppermint schnapps_. It was kind of fitting. 'I want champagne, do they have champagne?' He tugged at Ned's arm, reaching over him and getting two little jello shots. 

'Ugh. I hate jello shots.' Ned wrinkled his nose. 'And I bet you can find some over there.' He was so _eager_ , like, like nakedly eager. Peter blinked, trailing after him. Angel tolerance was really low. Maybe the drugs had erased liver damage. Did demons even have livers? Did angels? 

He tripped into the wall. Ned giggled and kept his hand on Peter's arm. They walked over a little dance floor, Peter staring at his golden, flushed reflection in a burnished mirror. He picked at his nails. 'Here we go,' he murmured in Ned's ear. 'Cheers.' 

He was tired of parties usually. Bars and clubs and things that held the interest of sin. He liked this one, though. It was busy and the walls were splashed with color, with art. He knew Liz. He didn't know this side of her. 'And that's her,' Ned breathed. Peter blinked. He certainly didn't know _this_ side of her. 

Short white dress and a beaming, dimpled smile. 'Wow.' 

'I've never been to one of these before,' Ned confessed, turning to the table and drinking an entire glass of champagne. Peter laughed, leaning into him. 

'Me neither.' 

'But you're so cool!' Ned sputtered. 'Have you even... met Liz?' 

Peter raised his eyebrows playfully. 'Me to know, and, and you to find out.' Peppermint schnapps- oh. Peppermint _vodka._ That was special. The burn was achingly familiar. 'Why- why is nothing hot here?' he asked. Why did the heat, at least, why did it not hurt? It felt like a con. 

'I think summer is really hot,' Ned said. He sounded very knowledgeable. 

'You're so smart,' Peter told him point blank, swinging his arm around his new friend's shoulder. 'You know what I think when I look at you right now? We could be friends for the rest of our lives. We could do this over and over. We could literally know each other forever.' 

Ned sniffed. 'Thanks, man. You're so, you're so cool.' 

'You're really cool, too,' Peter said honestly. 'I want more champagne.' He hiccuped. 'Please follow me, unit RD-2, for more intoxication, we have yet to reach our full potential,' he laughed. 

'It's _R2-D2_ , are you a nerd, too?' Ned asked, smiling widely at him. He was all toothy. Peter loved it. 

'It depends on your definition of nerd,' he said, sitting with an _oomp_ on a couch. 'What kind of music is this?' 

"House party music!' Ned laughed. He threw his head back, sitting loosely. 'At least I think so.' 

Peter giggled, wrinkling his nose at the smell from the bathroom. 'Do you want to dance!' Ned stood up. 

'Yeah! Yeah!' he said boisterously, wings knocking into Peter. 'Follow me, let's dance.' 

They entered a maybe-makeshift dance floor and Peter lost his head _and_ his friend. He danced with a blue haired girl wearing all black and glitter, and two other girls wearing these sheer dresses over bathing suits and maybe, maybe there was a pool here! Their hair was wet. Matching glitter caked their eyelids and the two of them pulled him into their orbit easy as breathing. 'You looked like so much fun,' one girl told him, gladly spinning out. 

Peter bounced in the air, sliding the other girl across the floor. She laughed long and loud, humming to the music. 'I love to dance,' he confessed, 'Even if I'm not so good at it.' 

'I think you're great!' And she smiled, hand chasing her friend and looping through her arm. 'You're the most fun we've had yet!'

'Yeah!' The other girl kissed him eagerly on the cheek. 'I want to do this forever!' His chest was a rising sea, and once it hit a certain point it might be dangerous, but right now, his steel trap of a heart was glowing and Peter was happy to toss his head back and let the bass thrum to him. 

As was usual, in his experience, he found Ned again. His friend still had his hat, but not his jacket, and he couldn't stop a string of breathless laughter. 'Peter,' he gasped out, 'This is so fun.' His knees buckled and they both hit the same couch they'd been on earlier. Peter was sprawled out and Ned was still reserved. 

'Thank you,' Peter whispered, hugging him. 

Ned was a delicate touch. He hugged Peter back, and it barely even felt fierce. Definitely not judging. 'You're a good friend, alright? You're a good friend-' Ned told him truthfully, and then he was interrupted.

'Ned _Leeds_?' A girl cried. 'Ned, I haven't seen you in so long, how _are_ you, is your aunt doing okay?' 

'I'm staying with her right now!' he replied, fumbling with the drink he'd been gripping like a lifeline the moment he caught sight of her. 

'Who's your friend?' She tilted her head. 

'Peter Parker,' he greeted, eyes glittering. 'I'll go get us some more drinks, Ned,' he said, dragging himself to his feet. He smiled rashly at his friend, and the farther he got from his friend, the more he slipped into old posture. He leaned next to a pair of boys, expecting to be left alone, but when one of them laughed, loudly, and took a moment to look him up and down, Peter quickly changed course. 

He bumped into the one on the left, a blonde, and leaned in. 'Let me just get a drink,' he murmured. Half of him was sick with it, the urge to curl into his arms, and the other half of Peter wanted to just go find Johnny: Peter missed Johnny a lot. It was troubling. Both boys had a kind of familiarity about them: there was a Johnny lookalike, and then next to him, a- a _boy_ version of MJ. He chuckled, swaying. 'You look like one of my old friends,' he said. 

'Do I?' He stared at himself. 'S that a compliment?' 

Peter smiled, razor sharp, and off putting. 'Not really. She was a bitch, you know,' he said, swallowing hard. 'I loved her, though.' 

'You need to sit down?' 

'I haven't even been here a half hour,' he said, wings crashing mournfully into a painting. Someone screamed but the noise was all drowned out by music. It was all a mixture, driving deep into him. The bass, at least. 'I'm very talented at getting trashed.' 

'Me too!' Blondie said brightly. 

'Taylor, you've gotta sober up- we- we're flying home.' The MJ lookalike whipped his head around, wings flapping a blast of acrid air into Peter's face. 'We're flying home, oh God, you're gonna crash,' he laughed.

Taylor slapped his friend on the back. 'Have a little faith, pal! How're you getting home, if you're this- this bad, you're gonna have a time of it.' Peter blinked. Did he look that bad? 

His face slipped into a Cheshire cat grin, self satisfied. 'I'll be here getting drunker, I don't know, till I pass out.' The three of them laughed together. Peter was good at this kind of thing, he thought, large eyes batting up and down at a woman across the room. He clenched his hands, turning around and rapidly doing _two_ more jello shots, because they were basically just sugar and he was fine, fine fine fine. 

The two boys were fun. Peter hadn't even learned both of their names. He braced himself on the wall. Where was Ned? Squinting through the crowd and tripping, one shoulder hitting the wall hard, he began a treacherous path to where he _thought_ Ned was. 'Are you- okay?' They were talking to him. Peter. 

'Yeah,' he said. His voice sounded wrecked. They, too, the kind stranger, they were lost in the crowd. Peter wanted Ned. He wanted that soft feeling back, and he wanted to have someone to hold his hair back if he vomited. He slid to the floor, right next to a door. People went in and out of that door, and Peter watched carefully for his friend. Maybe- maybe not _carefully_. It sent tension rippling across his back. He was less alert like this, he had to be, had to be wary. And everything. He never knew what was around the corner. 

Hell. He felt like a mess today. Sweat was in the air, on the tip of his tongue, and the whole room was all too loud, not to mention blisteringly hot. Something had gone terribly wrong, but he couldn't feel, in his chest, what it was. When he saw himself in an overlarge mirror on the wall, Peter knew why people kept looking at him strange. His eyes were cold and unfeeling beneath three coats of smudged eyeliner, and a large smear of red glitter marked his cheeks. From those girls earlier. Peter shivered and looked away. 

The door opened. No one but him noticed. The man who stepped through- all of the color drained from Peter's face. Oh God.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> akdmnfjoienkfcmnq  
> CLIFFHANGER ALERT!!! I am so sorry- next chapter will resolve this (and tbh... I don't even remember parties literally let me live I miss pre-covid more than anything I just want to pilfer some gin and make my friends some nasty cocktails. i m i s s)) also next chapter will have le dinner party i think. trying to remember if I dreamed the fact that I introduced that scene or if I actually introduced that scene is the worst part of writing this so far, I think.

**Author's Note:**

> I adore comments if that's your thing! this IS a work in progress so if there's a scene or a situation you wanna see develop? comment it! even if it's just somethin real basic like you want a lotta hugs. 
> 
> (there will be a lotta hugs in here don't shame me I have daddy issues 🥺)


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